


What We Have

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Politics, Wangst, cigars and liquor, implied Germany/France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(extremely old kink meme fill reposted here for archive purposes)</p>
<p>For the prompt - Turkey/France - friends with benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Have

France continues ignoring him in favor of kissing the actress’s cheeks before wishing her a pleasant night with her coterie of exotic admirers. He watches fondly as she ducks into a waiting limo, effortlessly graceful, and only then does he turn and glare at Turkey, striding over to where he stands in the neon glow of the marquee.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be in the country? Did ya think I wouldn’t notice?” Turkey asks bluntly, before France could get in a word.

France’s eyebrows draw together in consternation, his lips thinned with suppressed irritation. “I saw no need to intrude upon your time. Now, unless you have something important to say to me, I must get back to the hotel.” 

“The hotel?” Turkey repeats in disbelief. “Look, I’ve got a place here in the city, you can stay with me. We’ll talk there.” He reaches for France’s hand, who practically hisses and pulls back like an angry cat.

“Non, non, I can not accept.”

“France,” Turkey says, gripping his wrist with a little more force than necessary, “you know you’re insulting me by refusing hospitality. Can you really afford that?”

And France admits that there may be more at stake here than simply his money, his pride. “But my room, my luggage-” he protests, still half-heartedly striving for an escape.

“I’ll call someone to get your things, don’t worry about it.” Grinning in triumph, Turkey slings an arm around his shoulders, and France sighs dramatically as he is firmly guided towards the other’s flat.

“I am only accepting your offer as a friend. Nothing more, you understand.”

“Hah, to be honest, I didn’t realize we’ve upgraded to being friends. But I don’t mind.” At that, France graces him with a reluctant smile, and Turkey knows he has won this round.

 

“You were a lot more fun back in the old days,” Turkey says out of nowhere, as he watches France poke around the sleekly furnished apartment, slim and fashionable in an embroidered linen shirt and crisp white slacks that skim over the curves of his legs just right. 

“I am the same as I ever was,” France replies, looking somewhat petulant at the implication that he is one, getting old, and two, no longer fun. He worries about getting old, sometimes, whenever he remembers.

“I don’t know. Seems like Germany’s been rubbing off on you lately.”

Something of the France he used to know returns when he leers at Turkey, blue eyes flashing with a hint of cruel delight. “Oh, that is the least of what he has been doing to me, mon cher. You might already know, but Germany has a very impressive ---”

“Ah, keep it to yourself, I don’t need to hear that rot.” It was a mistake to bring it up, Turkey knows, because he hates feeling jealous, even over a petty and obviously unavoidable matter such as this, and yet he couldn’t help picking at the wound, like a stupid kid who doesn’t know any better.

To take his mind off of it, he asks gruffly, “So, wanna drink? A cigar?”

“Oui, a drink sounds absolutely lovely.”

Following him to the wet bar, France leans on the counter and watches out of half-closed eyes as Turkey pours out two glasses of imported brandy and sets them on the marbled surface with a light clink. He offers a cigar picked out from the well-stocked humidor, but France waves it away, and shrugging, Turkey cuts and lights the blunt, then takes a deep drag, blowing out curls of acrid white smoke.

“Look, I didn’t mean what I said before,” he confesses, and the words are pulled out of his throat slowly, like he has to choose them with care. “You’re still fun, won’t deny that, but everyone has changed. We’re tired, too careful. Sometimes I just… want to go back to how things used to be.” Turkey leans over the counter top, the cigar held loosely in his fingers while he regards the other nation with dark, intense eyes.

“Back when you were an empire,” France murmurs to himself, finding the contents of his glass suddenly interesting.

“When you were one, too.”

And he freezes, long pale fingers stilled against the crystal.

“Those days are over, Turkey, and will not return, not for us,” France says at last, his voice tight, the syllables clipped. “I am content now, with Germany and the Union. Or at least most of it.” The tension in the air disperses just barely when he smiles up at him, a puckish grin just this side of mischief. “You know, some say… that Greece’s current problems could partly be traced back the rule of the Ottoman Empire.”

Bristling at the accusation, Turkey snaps back, “Aye, but you can’t prove a thing. I haven’t bothered about him for years. If he’s as smart as everyone else seems to think he is, he should have taken care of that mess before it came to this, without needing my, or anyone’s, help.”

Unable to keep it in any longer, France bursts out into laughter, laughs until he is almost crying, and he manages to gasp out a “desole” before Turkey goes around the bar to wring his scrawny neck for daring to make fun of his ability to take care of younger nations. The smug bastard, as if he did any better with his own former colonies.

Maybe it was for the best that France was blocking his application to their exclusive little club like the two-faced lying son of a bitch he was. If Belgium herself invited him right this moment, Turkey thinks he would have refused.

Well, probably…

 

In the end, Turkey dispenses with the formality, and he brings the bottle along as the two of them relocate to the leather couch. Germany and the EU are no longer mentioned as they continue to tease each other, as two old friends might. They bring up fond memories, when they first met, France too small and skinny for the armor he wore, Turkey still awkwardly growing into the empire that the sultans had dreamed of building. Of course, France then continues with rather exaggerated reminiscing about the second time they met, adding in certain gestures for emphasis, and Turkey feels an embarrassed flush heating his cheeks as he tries to correct France’s version. He might have been a little forward, a little rough, taking him to bed that first time, but he was positive he didn’t do that, and especially not that.

When France trails off and curls up into his side with a contented little noise, Turkey gives into the urge to pull him close and kiss him deeply, so that after he finally releases him, France shudders and sighs, blowing a thin stream of cigar smoke up into the air.

“You taste horrible,” he complains, sulking, but he does not refuse Turkey’s next kiss or the one after that.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part that is not caught up with taste and smell and sensations that define Turkey, he knows he is being courted, although very awkwardly, by someone who never had any need for romantic gestures before, and he can not help but feel pleased by the efforts he is putting into this.

It is unfortunate for his ersatz suitor that France does not want to be courted by the likes of Turkey. But he keeps that to himself.

 

Before they realize it, they had finished off the brandy, quite an accomplishment seeing how they were also making out at the same time, and France whines for (predictably) wine. Remembering what happened some twenty years ago, Turkey refuses to give him anything but water.

“Can’t have you throwing up later.”

“I am not like that boorish England, I can hold my liquor,” France grumbles, but he downs the glass of water gratefully. “Bed now?” and he glances up coyly through his lashes as he holds out his arms.

Turkey rolls his eyes, but he picks France up easily and carries him to the guestroom, stepping over the luggage brought back from the five-star hotel. It was depositing France into the bed that turns into a problem, when France suddenly wraps his legs around his waist. Sliding his hands to his hips, Turkey tries to pry him off, but France has exceptionally well-developed leg muscles due to his favorite activities, such as ah, cycling, and he only grips him tighter, rubbing up against his groin just so.

“I don’t get it, I thought you said we were just friends,” Turkey groans in frustration.

“Mm, but you wouldn’t let me go back to my hotel. You said you would pay, and I am making you pay, and you will pay because you are my friend,” France murmurs breathlessly and grinds against him even harder.

“You little… fuck!”

France snickers in approval, and Turkey gives up trying to free himself. Collapsing against the mattress, pinning France underneath him with his weight, he catches his lips into rough kisses, feeling fine stubble pleasantly scratching against his skin. France returns the kisses with equal fervor, sucking at his tongue, nipping at his lips as his fingers play with the curls at the base of Turkey’s neck. All the while their still clothed bodies move together, delicious hot friction building, wonderfully slow.

Turkey pulls away reluctantly, and stares down at France, whose eyes were sapphire dark with lust, lips reddened so prettily.

“I don’t want to be your toy anymore,” he thinks fiercely, ripping at France’s shirt, ignoring the other’s loud complaint. “I don’t want to be like those fools you use up and throw away when they start to bore you.” He yanks the fashionable slacks partway off and pulls his own trousers down hurriedly, groaning as France reaches for him and touches him, his brain cells nearly shorting out from the rush of pleasure, just from those damned fingers.

“But I am still like them, despite you calling us friends, I can not resist you, not ever, and when you grind me under your boot, I will beg for more.”

He can not think so clearly now, France is whispering to him, goading him, making him shiver all over, and he can not answer in return, for his body is surrendering to the teasing strokes, the knowledgeable caresses. He is barely aware of his own hands pressing apart those lean thighs, his slick fingers pushing further in, his hard aching cock following soon after, delving deep into that heat and yes, it makes him growl in relief. France is moaning and gasping, bucking his hips as Turkey fucks him hard, but as he moves to stroke himself, he finds his hand promptly shoved away, back onto the blankets. In retaliation, he clenches down, hooking his legs tightly around the other’s waist, arcing his back high, and hearing Turkey curse loudly above him makes him chuckle, panting and breathless.

“You fucking slut,” Turkey hisses because that felt amazing, and now his free hand is already curled around his erection, stroking and squeezing and hurrying him to his climax even as his own rhythm grows rougher, less steady. Hearing France babbling at him, ah oui, harder, cher, yes, like that, seeing himself buried to the hilt between France’s spread legs, feeling too hot for his own skin, too good to last much longer, because good things never last, do they, but he makes it last while he can.

Turkey is certain the entire city block has heard them by the time they have spent themselves, and hopes no one has bothered to learn French. He is sweaty and drowsy and he lazily thrusts one last time into the prone nation, and France stretches and sighs in pleasure, filled and sated to the brim. When Turkey leans over and licks a spatter of cum off of his stomach, France murmurs something sweet, something false in his own language, but other than that, they do not speak. There is nothing to say, nothing that wouldn’t upset the balance between them.

Soon they drift off to sleep in comfortable silence, arms and legs tangled together like the lovers they are not.

 

It was one of the better wake-up calls he has received, France’s fingers massaging his cock. He wouldn’t mind waking up to that every morning, but then he remembers who is with him.

“Whadya want?” Turkey grunts sourly, trying to push further into France’s fist.

“I want a bath,” France replies, and he keeps his hand loose on purpose.

“What’re you lookin’ at me for? I’m sure you know how to use a faucet by now.”

Smiling wickedly, France then squeezes a little, causing his breath to hitch. “You are coming, yes? I need someone to wash my back for me.”

“Pretty sure your hotel room didn’t cost that much,” Turkey manages to gasp out.

Without warning, France lets go of him and gets up to sashay to the door, while Turkey gapes open-mouthed, his cock still throbbing for release.

“The bath is that way,” he calls out as he scrambles off the bed after him.

**Author's Note:**

> As of 2010, France and the Ottoman Empire have had a long history of friendship, with a few notable exceptions during wartime. Modern relations are somewhat cool due to Turkey's application to join the EU and President Sarkozy's view that Turkey is not a part of Europe, plus growing anti-Muslim sentiment in France. Despite the worsening relationship, they went ahead with the Turkish Season in France, a several month long celebration of Turkish culture, after the success of the French Spring in Turkey. What I didn't research was the brand of cigars and liquor that would be stocked in a swanky apartment in Turkey... Do they even have those in Turkey? I don't know.


End file.
